The city of Loomingdale lies west of the Far Leprous Hills; the Jungle of Unk is at its back, curving south to west, where it reaches the ends of the earth. Great stone walls protect the city, its stone towers and mansions rising high into the sky above. The entire city is perennially lit by the sunset’s soft glow, and the river before the town burbles gently as it languidly passes by.
Loomingdale is perhaps the greatest democracy of the Lands Beyonds, its mayoralty sung of in story and song… Indeed, until that moment I had never seen the city, and knew of it only by reputation. Its admirable administration, its gallant governance, its correct character - all are spoken of in soaring soliloquies and recited in rapturous rhapsodies.
I had no plans to stay in the city, merely to pass through it on my way to the Most Westerly Point. Still, I thought I might stop by the mayoral palace, which was said to be a brilliant work of architecture-
***
“The mayoral palace?” I inquired. “Sounds a bit like a king’s abode.”
“Yes. The grandiose, seven story structure in the centre of town, built as a promise of the beauty the mayor would bring to the lives of his people. The current mayor had lived there ever since he was installed, some thirty years prior.”
“Thirty years? That’s an awfully long time between elections.” I said, slightly suspiciously.
“Oh, he was mayor for life - the people held that that way he might better learn their dispositions and interests, and cater to their needs.”
“That sounds like a king.”
“Ah, but he was elected - through hereditary inheritance, for only this will ensure that the leader is representative of the common man.”
“Again, a king.”
“He represented their interests from his throne room, where he ruled with suzerain authority by virtue of the authority invested in Man.”
“Again, that is a king.” I groaned. “Next you’re going to tell me that the state rooted its legitimacy in an ordained order.”
“How else would they guarantee the inviolability of human dignity?” The vampire asked in obvious confusion.
“You know what? Forget it.”
“Well of course we can forget it. It was a human city, so it’s not like any of it existed anyhow.”
***
I reached the city just after dawn, the sunset gleaming gold about me. I forded the river with ease and passed the immense sign which lay before the gates, and which intoned as firmly as the rock it was engraved upon:
Remember to Commit the Right Crimes - It’s the Law!
***
This time there was no need for me to interrupt: the look on my face, apparently, was sufficient to say all that needed to be said. The vampire blinked and, as if surprised that I was unaware, remarked,
“Why, didn’t you know? Mayor Samsa I, Founder of the Free City of Loomingdale, concluded that the easiest way to fight crime was not to outlaw it or punish it but to declare it permissible provided it was reciprocal, and enshrined this as the basic principle of the Constitution. So when one wants a bolt of cloth, one sneaks into the stall, cackling like a madman, and swipes the bolt from the salesman, who malignantly steals the value of the cloth in return. Then, at the end of the day, the salesman takes home his errant earnings - tiptoeing and looking about suspiciously all the while - where his wife has been making soup from rightfully stolen goods.”
The vampire stretched. “The sack of gold is slung onto the kitchen table; they rub their hands, chuckling evilly as they contemplate their ill-gotten goods, before he steals a bowl of soup - and a kiss - and they go to read hijacked books on their purloined couch. If it’s near the end of the month, then before going to bed he carefully counts out a small purse of coins, and leaves it at the window with milk and cookies.
“That night, during the witching hour, the window slowly slides open and a man in a mask and a black and white striped suit sneaks in. The tax collector twirls his pencil moustache, snickering, as he eyes the coin purse - the salesman’s tax payment - before scooping it up in his snack and departing (though not before consuming the milk and cookies). If it is Tax Rebate Season, he leaves gifts for the kids to plunder from him.
“Of course, no sooner has he reached the palace than the mayor steals all the money from him, and the tax collector must duel him on the throne room steps to pillage his paycheck.”
“I hate this city already.”
“It is often called the Backwards Borough.” The vampire conceded.
“Why, exactly, did Mayor Samsa I design such a ridiculous city?”
And here the vampire grew misty-eyed. “Ah! You don’t understand his genius. He was a great man - he made it an article of law that no man should be hanged twice for the same offence. He can, however, be shot.”
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“Right,” I said perfunctorily, deciding to push forwards the narrative rather than continue to question what I could not understand. “So, you visited the city.”
“Yes, after paying the bribe at the toll booth.”
I sighed. “Okay, and-”
“Open up!”
I cocked my head. “Excuse me?”
“Hmm? It wasn’t me,” the vampire observed, blinking lethargically.
“Open up!” Came the voice again, from somewhere near the front of the graveyard. It was a sharp, staccato bark, with the expectation of being followed. “This is the police!”
I groaned. This night just got better and better.
Hoping against hope that the officer’s visit had nothing to do with a certain recently buried someone, I headed to the front gate. My first sight of the policeman did not inspire me with joy.
He was in many respects a stereotypical officer of the law - burly, his uniform and peaked cap in tiptop shape, a thick moustache twitching under his sunglasses. In other respects he was perhaps too stereotypical, and there were parts of him that were… wrong. His uniform was the wrong shade, the designs on his cuffs didn’t match, and one of his epaulettes was the wrong colour.
Add in the unusual decision to wear sunglasses at the crisp hour of two in the morning and it was like someone had crafted a pastiche of a policeman, putting him together from many different images. An unusual and uncanny impression, and one raised the hair on the back of my neck.
Still, his badge was - so far as I could tell - entirely legitimate, and as I had no reason to turn him away I opened the gate, inviting him inside.
He thanked me kindly and walked in, carefully stepping over a pile of boards that had been propping up a hole right beside the gate.
“Now, laddy, are you the manager of this here graveyard?” He said brusquely, surveying the quiet graves and empty hills, face impassive.
“No sir. I’m the night watchman, but recently hired.”
“Mmm,” he grunted. “Fair enough. Shouldn’t be a problem anyways. No worries, laddy, I’m not here for any malignant purpose. There’ve been a lot of strange people wandering about, doing all sorts of odd and unusual things, so we’ve been out checking on the good citizens. Tell me, have you seen any strange people recently?”
I thanked the Heavens the vampire had decided not to join me at the gate, and confidently said “No,” relying on my training as a bureaucrat to help me pass off the lie.
The officer looked at me suspiciously but shrugged, evidently deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing the matter. “To tell you the truth, laddy, I had a more specific purpose in coming here - or a more specific person, really. We’ve been looking for one very strange fellow - a journalist, don’t you know.”
My heart jumped into my throat. The policeman fiddled with his gloves for a moment, paying me no heed, before finishing his remark. “According to our sources - and they are very reliable - this journalist was out questioning people about ghosts and ghoulies. A dangerous pastime, let me tell you, laddy - though surely you don’t need me to, for as an upstanding citizen you must know that it’s illegal to believe in the supernatural, and illegal-er still to make inquiries into it.”
I froze. So there was a kernel of truth in what the vampire had been telling me. Truth be told I had thought him full of bollocks until that very moment, for his tale had started incredible and grown ever more absurd.
The policeman contemplated me as my silence lengthened, continuing to fiddle with his gloves. He slid one off, revealing that his hand had only four fingers, then slid it back on. I gulped and said, as firmly as I could, “Of course, sir. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone except the journalist, it seems,” the policeman commented wryly. “We explained to him as politely as you please that that sort of thing Just Wasn’t Done, but no sooner had we forbid him from making appointments than we found out he was doorstepping. Left a note saying he was going to expose the fairies to the world, then harassed half the archivists, bankers, and hatters in town till he learned we were on his trail. After that he broke and ran; he was last seen heading into these here woods, so we thought we’d step in and make some inquiries of our own.”
“Well, I can confidently tell you he’s not currently here,” I said. This was true - he had been here, and now he was dead.
“Mmm. It’s a big graveyard, laddy. Awfully hard for one man to survey all on his lonesome; awfully easy for one man to hide all on his lonesome. Awfully scary to be doing that survey all by yourself, when you don’t know what’s in the dark. Tell you what - how about I help you search? I can even call in my partner, making the search a little less nerve wracking.”
Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to cut and run, an impulse which only grew stronger as I saw the policeman squeeze his hand and the hand give, depressing inwards by more than two inches.
“Oh. Thank you for the offer, but really I don’t think he’d be hiding here - no fairies to inquire after, after all,” I lied.
The policemen considered this for a while, sightless eyes scanning the hills. Then, at last, “I’m afraid I can’t quite believe you. He has been here, hasn’t he?”
It took me a moment to formulate my response - one moment too long, evidently, for as I was thinking the officer reached his own conclusion. It was, unfortunately, the wrong one.
“You’re in cahoots with him, aren’t you?” The man growled, and drew his pistol. “Buddy, aiding and abetting is a crime in itself.”
And he fired. I threw myself to the side, landing awkwardly on the ground and scrambling away. The area where I’d been standing burst into electric blue fire, the flames matching the strange ethereal light swirling around what was most assuredly not a standard-grade police pistol.
The police officer stepped forwards, his gait jerky, and aimed his pistol at my still prone form. An object flew through the night. The officer clutched his face, cursing. The spare flashlight landed on the ground, having just hit him in the eye.
“You might want to run,” Joseph calmly remarked from within the trees. I needed no further invitation, climbing back to my feet and dashing into the woods as the officer removed his hand from his face. Black ichor dripped from a deep gash on his cheek, the silvery sheen of steel visible underneath his plastic flesh.
He removed his glasses, revealing two hollow pits underneath, and scanned the woods till he located the tree Joseph was hiding behind.
“Target x1a7Yypz detected. Activating Protocol #00373,” he intoned, his voice now greatly more monotonous. Two bolts shot out from his gun - Joseph leapt aside at superhuman speeds, scooping me up under his arm - a pair of innocent trees bursting asunder behind us. The officer grimaced, seeing his shots had missed. “Ineffective. Disassembling.”
And before I could ask Joseph who the policeman was or what he was talking about, the officer dissolved.